Retief glanced across at Fitzraven, standing behind the inner barrier, jaw set, a grim expression on his face. That boy, thought Retief, doesn’t have much confidence in my old bones holding out.
* * *
The whistle blew. Retief moved toward the other man at a trot, the club level at his side. He had decided to handle it like a shortsword, so long as that seemed practical. He would have to learn by experience.
The white horse cantered past him swerving, and the blond fellow whirled his club at Retief’s head. Automatically, Retief raised his club, fended off the blow, cut at the other’s back, missed. This thing is too short, Retief thought, whirling his horse. I’ve got to get in closer. He charged at the champion as the white horse was still in midturn, slammed a heavy blow against his upraised club, rocking the boy; then he was past, turning again. He caught the white horse shorter this time, barely into his turn, and aimed a swing at the man, who first twisted to face him, then spurred, leaped away. Retief pursued him, yelping loudly. Get him rattled, he thought. Get him good and mad!
The champion veered suddenly, veered again, then reared his horse high, whirling, to bring both forefeet down in a chopping attack. Retief reined in, and Danger-by-Night sidestepped disdainfully, as the heavy horse crashed down facing him.
That was a pretty maneuver, Retief thought; but slow, too slow.
His club swung in an overhand cut; the white horse tossed his head suddenly, and the club smashed down across the animal’s skull. With a shuddering exhalation, the beast collapsed, and the blond man sprang clear.
* * *
Retief reined back, dismayed. He hadn’t wanted to kill the animal. He had the right, now, to ride the man down from the safety of the saddle. When gladiators met in mortal combat, there were no rules except those a man made for himself. If he dismounted, met his opponent on equal terms, the advantage his horse had given him would be lost. He looked at the man standing now, facing him, waiting, blood on his face from the fall. He thought of the job he had set himself, the plan that hinged on his victory here. He reminded himself that he was old, too old to meet youth on equal terms; but even as he did so, he was reining the lean black stallion back, swinging down from the saddle. There were some things a man had to do, whether logic was served or not. He couldn’t club the man down like a mad dog from the saddle.
There was a strange expression on the champion’s face. He sketched a salute with the club he held. “All honor to you, old man,” he said. “Now I will kill you.” He moved in confidently.
Retief stood his ground, raising his club to deflect a blow, shifting an instant ahead of the pattern of the blond man’s assault. There was a hot exchange as the younger man pressed him, took a glancing blow on the temple, stepped back breathing heavily. This wasn’t going as he had planned. The old man stood like a wall of stone, not giving an inch; and when their weapons met, it was like flailing at a granite boulder. The young fellow’s shoulder ached from the shock. He moved sideways, circling cautiously.
Retief moved to face him. It was risky business, standing up to the attack, but his legs were not up to any fancy footwork. He had no desire to show his opponent how stiff his movements were, or to tire himself with skipping about. His arms were still as good as any man’s, or better. They would have to carry the battle.
The blond jumped in, swung a vicious cut; Retief leaned back, hit out in a one-handed blow, felt the club smack solidly against the other’s jaw. He moved now, followed up, landed again on the shoulder. The younger man backed, shaking his head. Retief stopped, waited. It was too bad he couldn’t follow up his advantage, but he couldn’t chase the fellow all over the arena. He had to save his energy for an emergency. He lowered his club, leaned on it. The crowd noises waxed and waned, unnoticed. The sun beat down in unshielded whiteness, and fitful wind moved dust across the field.
“Come back, peddler,” he called. “I want you to sample more of my wares.” If he could keep the man angry, he would be careless; and Retief needed the advantage.
* * *
The yellow-haired man charged suddenly, whirling the club. Retief raised his, felt the shock of the other’s weapon against his. He whirled as the blond darted around him, shifted the club to his left hand in time to ward off a wild swing. Then the fingers of his left hand exploded in fiery agony, and the club flew from his grasp. His head whirled, vision darkening, at the pain from his smashed fingers. He tottered, kept his feet, managed to blink away the faintness, to stare at his hand. Two fingers were missing, pulped, unrecognizable. He had lost his weapon; he was helpless now before the assault of the other.
His head hummed harshly, and his breath came like hot sand across an open wound. He could feel a tremor start and stop in his leg, and his whole left arm felt as though it had been stripped of flesh in a shredding machine. He had not thought it would be as bad as this. His ego, he realized, hadn’t aged gracefully.
Now is the hour, old man, he thought. There’s no help for you to call on, no easy way out. You’ll have to look within yourself for some hidden reserve of strength and endurance and will; and you must think well now, wisely, with a keen eye and a quick hand, or lose your venture. With a movement stiffened by the racking pain-shock, he drew his ceremonial dagger, a jewel-encrusted blade ten inches long. At the least he would die with a weapon in his hand and his face to the enemy.
The blond youth moved closer, tossed the club aside.
“Shall a peddler be less capable of the beau geste than the arrogant knight?” He laughed, drawing a knife from his belt. “Is your head clear, old man?” he asked. “Are you ready?”
“A gesture . . . you can . . . ill afford,” Retief managed. Even breathing hurt. His nerves were shrieking their message of shock at the crushing of living flesh and bone. His forehead was pale, wet with cold sweat.
The young fellow closed, struck out, and Retief evaded the point by an inch, stepped back. His body couldn’t stand pain as once it had, he was realizing. He had grown soft, sensitive. For too many years he had been a Diplomat, an operator by manipulation, by subtlety and finesse. Now, when it was man to man, brute strength against brute strength, he was failing.
But he had known when he started that strength was not enough, not without agility; it was subtlety he should be relying on now, his skill at trickery, his devious wit.
Retief caught a glimpse of staring faces at the edge of the field, heard for a moment the mob roar, and then he was again wholly concentrated on the business at hand.
He breathed deeply, struggling for clear-headedness. He had to inveigle the boy into a contest in which he stood a chance. If he could put him on his mettle, make him give up his advantage of tireless energy, quickness . . .
“Are you an honest peddler, or a dancing master?” Retief managed to growl. “Stand and meet me face to face.”
The blond man said nothing, feinting rapidly, then striking out. Retief was ready, nicked the other’s wrist.
“Gutter fighting is one thing,” Retief said. “But you are afraid to face the old man’s steel, right arm against right arm.” If he went for that, Retief thought, he was even younger than he looked.
“I have heard of the practice,” the blond man said, striking at Retief, moving aside from a return cut. “It was devised for old men who did not wish to be made ridiculous by more agile men. I understand that you think you can hoodwink me, but I can beat you at your own game. . . .”
“My point awaits your pleasure,” Retief said.
* * *
The younger man moved closer, knife held before him. Just a little closer, Retief thought. Just a little closer.
The blond man’s eyes were on Retief’s. Without warning, Retief dropped his knife and in a lightning motion caught the other’s wrist.
“Now struggle, little fish,” he said. “I have you fast.”
The two men stood chest to chest, staring into each other’s eyes. Retief’s breath came hard, his heart pounded almost painfully. His left arm was a great pulsating weight of pain. Sweat ran down his dusty face into his eyes. But his grip was locked solidly. The blond youth strained in vain.